Chapter 14
There was darkness. The last of the bridge, where it protruded like a tongue of stone above the chasm, was crumbling even as Aragorn and Boromir leaped the last of the way to solid ground. Sobs heaved in and out of Rhian's breast, and Erin, kneeling beside her, clutching her hand, was shuddering and weeping. Dumb shock and horror covered the company the stood at the brink of the chasm of Khazad-Dum. Aragorn's voice roused them from their stupor. "Come! I will lead you now! We must obey his last command. Follow me."
Rhian would reflect later that if she hadn't already known he was a king, she would have felt it in his voice then. Boromir gathered her up into his arms again, but she was numb and barely noticed, other than to catch hold of his cloak again and cling to his shoulders as he staggered up the great stairs beyond. Ahead Aragorn led, and she saw for the first time that Aria was wounded too, a small bundle caught up against Legolas' shoulder.
They ran on, weeping as they ran, and the drumbeats rolled slow and mournful behind. Doom. Doom. Doom. Light before them, from great shafts piercing the roof. Into a hall, bright with daylight from great eastward windows. Erin's eyes stung with new light and tears. They fled on, through the great broken doors, and then the Great Gates opened in an arch of blazing light. An orc guard blocked their way only for a moment and was knocked aside. Rhian was born out, into the sunshine, and down the huge steps, worn with age.
The Fellowship passed over the threshold of Moria, and wind dried the tears on their cheeks and turned them cold.
On through the Dimrill Dale they went, surrounded by the shadow of the Misty Mountains, but with golden sunshine in the east. Back, beyond Boromir's shoulder, Rhian saw the black doorway of the Gates amidst the mountain shadow. Faint and far away rolled drumbeats. Doom. Black smoke trailed thinly on the wind, up and away. The world around them was empty, and as Boromir set her upon the ground Rhian felt the grief rising through them all, and they mourned, each in his own way.
Doom. Doom. Doom...the last of the drumbeats faded into silence.
It was Rhian who broke the sorrow stricken silence; the arm on which she rested seemed almost dead with numbness, and she shifted her weight from it. The movement evoked a soft cry that she could not bite back quickly enough. The sound brought Aragorn from where he stood staring back at the black Gates, and she saw the marks on his weathered cheeks where the wind had dried his tears.
"Little bird, forgive me!" he exclaimed, falling down to one knee at her side. "This hurt is grave and I have given no thought to it."
"It's not so bad," Rhian mumbled, leaning on her sister. Her throat was harsh from weeping, and she coughed. The shuddering movement hurt all through her body, and began the flow of blood again. Aragorn pressed her gently back and bend over her shoulder. Carefully he peeled the cloth of Erin's hastily made bandage away, and then used his dagger to cut back the fabric of Rhian's tunic, laying her shoulder bare, red and angry beneath the drying blood. She found herself looking with strange fascination at the black tip that had torn through her shoulder- the haft had been broken in her first fall, but the arrowhead remained lodged in her flesh, and when Aragorn probed it gently she choked back a scream.
As the end of the arrow was slowly, tortuously drawn out Rhian sank her teeth into a fold of her cloak- quite possibly, she reflected with bitter humor through tears of pain, the only part of the garment still relatively clean. She gripped her sister's hand until her knuckles whitened, and when Aragorn finally wrapped a clean bandage over the wound and tied it off she sank back with a gasp. Her face was deathly pale from the loss of blood.
The rest of the fellowship turned away as Erin eased the torn, bloodied tunic off of her and replaced it with another. Aragorn looked about at the ragged band, faces streaked with dirt and soot and tears, clothing torn and hands smeared with the blood of orcs and their own small wounds. "I fear we cannot stay here longer," he said. "Our other hurts we must bind as we walk, and tend later." He turned to look back once more at the black, gaping maw of Moria. "Farewell, Gandalf!" he said, raising his sword in a last salute. "Did I not say to you: if you pass the doors of Moria, beware? Alas that I spoke true! What hope have we without you?"
Then he turned back to those who waited- Aria was still a small bundled shape against Legolas' shoulder, and Frodo leaned on Sam's arm. Boromir had lifted up a half-fainted Rhian again, and she dumbly wound her fingers in his cloak once more. The fellows marched.
Northward the dale rose up into a glen of shadows between two great arms of the mountains, above which three white peaks were chining: Celebdil, Fanuidhol, Caradhras, the Mountains of Moria. At the head of the glen a torrent flowed like a white lace over an endless ladder of short falls, and a mist of foam hung in the air about the mountains' feet.
To the east the out flung arm of the mountains marched to a sudden end, and far lands could be descried beyond them, wide and vague. To the south the misty mountains receded endlessly as far as sight could reach. Less than a mile away, and a little below them, for they still stood high up on the west side of the dale, there lay a mere. It was long and oval, shaped like a great spear head thrust deep into the northern glen; but its southern end was beyond the shadows under the sunlit sky. Yet its waters were dark: a deep blue like clear evening sky seen from a lamp-lit room.
Its face was still and unruffled. About it lay a smooth sward, shelving down on all sides to its bare unbroken rim. This was the Mirrormere, deep Kheled-zaram. They went down the road from the Gates.
It was rough and broken, the ancient stones cracked, and every step jarred Rhian's shoulder until she gritted her teeth and lay limp in Boromir's arms for pain. They followed the once paved way that wound upwards from the lowlands, passing toppled works of stone, and green mounds topped with silver birches or fir trees. Then the road went eastward, drawing them by the Mirrormere, where stood a broken column. There Gimlie said farewell to Kheled-zaram, and they went on, and on, at a swift pace, until Frodo and Sam had fallen far behind. Rhian, rousing from her stupor, saw that they were no longer near, and looked back for them over Boromir's shoulder. "Strider!" she cried, and her voice grated as a harsh whisper in her ears, but the Ranger heard her and turned. She pointed back to where the two small shapes toiled after them. At once Aragorn ran back, and Gimli went with him, for only he did not already bear a wounded burden. He carried the staggering Sam upon his back, and the Ring-bearer was hoisted into the arms of the Dunedan.
Soon afterward they came upon a stream that ran down from the west and joined its bubbling water with the hurrying Silverlode. Together they plunged over a fall of green-hued stone, and foamed down into a dell. About it stood fir trees, short and bent, and its sides were steep and clothes with harts tongue and shrubs of whortle-berry. At the bottom there was a level space through which the stream flowed noisily over shining pebbles. Here they rested. It was now nearly three hours after noon, and they had come only a few miles from the Gates. Already the sun was westering.
The kindling of the fire was left to Gimli, Merry, and Pippin, and the hurts of the others were tended by Strider. Aria had been laid by Legolas into the arms of Frodo, who held her in his lap and wept over her hair. Aragorn touched her forehead gravely, saying she would wake in her own time, well enough, and the arrow wound in her arm was bound. Erin made her sister lie still with her head pillowed on wadded shirt, and when Strider instructed her she bathed the hurt shoulder with the infusion of athelas. The pain lessened to a dull throb, and the redness eased a little ways. She fell into a heavy sleep, but the smell of the crushed kings-foil drifted around her and she dreamed sweetly enough.
Erin remained awake. As her sister slept, she bathed and bound the gash on her arm, the scrapes over her knuckles and torn knees. She also washed away the blood from her sister's hands and face. As she spread the cloak over Rhian, she heard the welcome sound of Aria's voice, helping Aragorn tend to Frodo's abused ribs.
She looked up, and saw Legolas turning away from the weary laughter, and his face made her soul sting for him. And across the fire she saw that Gimli also saw. And he met her eyes over the flame. What had Gandalf said, a million years ago this morning? Dwarves have keen eyes for seeing in the dark.
A/N: Well, it's not particularly long, and I'm terribly sorry. I shall try very hard to write more. Sorry it's been such a while, all you four people still reading this, but first I had to take a break after writing the last chapter (is it chance that that was chapter 13?) and then my life was enveloped by the Spring Musical, which is now over. It's weird, but without all my energy going into drama I feel like I have nothing to do with myself. So I'm writing. Aren't you pleased. Anyway, if all goes according to plan, next chapter will see us in Lothlorien, where (if all goes according to plan) Interesting Things Will Happen (provided, of course, that all goes according to plan). Anyway, thanks for reading! (all you lot that I can count on one hand). -Kathryn Angelle